Scars of War
by warrior of the nile
Summary: Sherlock returns to a John that is not very happy to see him. He feels hurt and betrayed, like Sherlock doesn't care for him. When he voices his opinion, he doesn't expect Sherlock to react as angrily as he does. But John isn't the only one who has scars of the last three years.


I technically did have this written before the 1st (barely), but I didn't get a chance to edit it until now (sorry, I probably missed something anyways). But this plot bunny wouldn't leave me be and I already had it done, so I say oh well and post it even if it is now officially AU. At least season three is finally here!

* * *

"You bloody idiot! How could you?!"

"I told you, I had no choice!"

"You could have found a way."

"I didn't have time."

"You should have taken me with you! You could have gotten killed for real this time."

"Which is why I didn't tell you."

"Wouldn't have been a problem if you had taken me with you."

"They would have killed you! Can you get that through your tiny brain? If they knew I was alive, they would have killed you."

"I can keep a secret."

"And what about Mrs Hudson and Lestrade? Not only would I have been taking you into danger, but I would have been risking their lives as well. Do you want that?"

"We could have thought of something."

"No. I told you, there was no other way!"

John doesn't reply, just stares at the man, breathing hard, like he had just finished a ten kilometer race.

It was Tuesday when Sherlock returned.

John had walked into his flat- not Baker Street, he moved out after the first year- to find the man on his couch. John stopped and just stared for a moment, unable to do anything else. His brain seemed unable to process that the person he saw _jump off a building_ is alive and kicking. So to speak anyways. Sherlock was sitting ram rod straight and was as tightly strung as one of the strings of his violin. But the expression remains. _He is fucking alive. _After three years he is still alive.

"What the fuck?" is the first thing he managed to say.

"Hello John," Sherlock replied, a bit drily.

It went down hill from there. Now they are reduced to yelling at each other, essentially saying the same thing over and over again in different ways. John can't help it, he just feels so hurt and betrayed and _useless, _god, so useless and stupid and idiotic.

"Do you even care?" he asks "Do you care what I went through these last three years? Did you even think about what they would do to me?"

Sherlock jerks back as if he had been punched. "Do I care? _Do I care?_" It seems the last bit of control Sherlock had is gone. "How can you ask me such a thing!? Did I not tell you I'd be lost without my blogger? Did I not tell you that _you_ are my only friend? Is jumping off a building and taking down a criminal web to just protect you not enough to tell you _that I care?_ What more do you want of me?" The last part is a growl.

"I didn't ask you to do any of that! I would have rather been with you."

"No. I would not let you near even one of those people, not for anything. They could not be allowed to touch you."

"And so you left me here to mourn you, an absolute waste of time, since you weren't really dead."

"_Yes._"

"Bloody fuck, you really are a machine aren't you?" As soon as John says it, he knows it was the absolute worse thing he could have said. The look on Sherlock's face... he can't even describe it, but it isn't good.

He strides forward and gets into John's face. "You listen to me John Watson," he says in a low, angry tone, "I have been bruised, beaten, cut, burned, captured, concussed, drown. I have had bones broken, whips, belts and a riding crop used on me, dogs set on me, rocks thrown at me. I did all of this so you could be at home, safe and free. Free to move out of Baker Street, free to find a quaint girlfriend, free to move on and forget about me, free to live your life how you wanted. I _apologize_," he sneers the word, "that it is not what you wanted. Feel free to hate me now. If you ever decide you don't, you know where to find me." He storms out of the flat, head held high.

John just watches him go, stunned.

* * *

It takes a week for John to show up at Baker Street. Miraculously Sherlock is there, stretched out in his chair like always. He doesn't look at John as he enters.

John clears his throat. "So..."

"Meredith talk you into coming over?"

"Mary and yeah, we talked."

"How touching. The girlfriend stepping in to reconcile two best friends." Sherlock's tone is sarcastic and cutting.

"We broke up."

Now Sherlock looks at him. He jerks his head around so fast John is afraid of whiplash. "Why?" he asks, making it sound more like a demand than a request for information.

"I love Mary, I do."

Sherlock scoffs.

"But," John continues, determined, "I've been in love with someone else for longer. Until last week I thought I had lost my chance to ever tell him. Now he's back and I'm still furious and hurt, but I refuse to waste any more time."

Sherlock fixes John with one of his intense deducing stares before getting up, strolling over and roughly pulling John into a kiss.

"Sherlock," he gasps, a question in there somewhere.

"Do I need to spell it out for you John?"

"No, fuck no, no talking," John answers, because that is answer enough.

As they continue, they move to the bedroom. There is nothing gentle about their first time together. It is hot and heavy, filled with passion and tension and fierceness. Afterward, as they lay entangled, John runs a hand over each of Sherlock's new scars, and Sherlock tells him the story behind each of them. It's quite a collection and John can only be thankful Sherlock was able to return to him.

Eventually they fall asleep together, each finally whole.


End file.
